


An Old War

by Marzi



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-10-01 23:14:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17253197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marzi/pseuds/Marzi
Summary: Roxy had no interest in seeing war come again, though some of her male cousins lamented their inability to find glory on a battlefield. She had been born after the end of the conflict, only knowing peace time, and was eager for it to stay that way.It did not mean she had no interest weaponry, their form, or the structure and study of fighting. After all, if you didn't understand something, how could you subvert it, change it, prevent it from ever happening again?





	An Old War

**Author's Note:**

> What kind of AU is this? Regency? Faux-Austen? Something else? Fuck if I know. Just another story I spent a lot of time on and just never finished.

When her sisters had been home, Roxy had no reason to sneak out of the house. Not that she didn't leave it without permission, but her mother's eyes were so firmly fixed on them, she had been able to go outside without much fuss. It was now obviously an oversight her mother regretted, considering that it was her favorite topic of complaint whenever Roxy's father was around.

 

Tonight wasn't much different than her usual excursions, even with the added servants sleeping in the middle of hallways to act as living alarms should she head for the doors at odd hours. As if the window wasn't her preferred method of exit.

 

She swung her legs out the sill, smiling at her trouser clad calves. With her petite frame, it wasn't difficult to find clothes that fit from the younger servants. They were all much too shy and awkward to say no to her requests, especially when she was handing them pearl handle combs in exchange for their clothes. The trinkets she gave them would quickly appear in the hands of maids and local shop girls, telling her their shyness did not extend so far as to prevent them from giving gifts to sweethearts.

 

She hung from the window, arms used to the strain, and dropped the last few inches to the ground. Getting back inside was always more challenging, but her mind did not dwell on that trick now that she was out.

 

It was summer, so she had not bothered with a coat, but the night air was still brisk enough to bring a chill to her skin. She rubbed at her arms as she headed across the grounds, knowing she would warm up soon enough. A lantern hung at the stables, but even on foggy nights the path was so familiar to her that she could always find the building.

 

When she stepped inside she took a deep breath, gathering in the smell of hay and horses. She took the lantern from the hook inside the door, fingers fumbling in the gloom before she managed to light it. She could see a spotted nose poking over a stall door once the area was illuminated, and she patted her fellow insomniac's nose.

 

“Hello Jasper.”

 

The old carthorse huffed at her, expecting treats and finding her hands empty.

 

“None of that, we both should be asleep.”

 

He tossed his head, turning back into the depths of his stall. Roxy didn't linger to watch him settle down for the night, moving towards the loft and her goal. Her mother worried that she wandered and would get lost, or find some foolish way to break her neck in the middle of the night. Truth was, she never went farther than the stables. She knew her family's property like the back of her hand, and had no inclination to roam it in the dark. The fantasies she used to conjure when she was little, of the first Arthur and his knights, were much too silly to reinvent now that she was older. The fields and woods were no longer quite as much fun without the daydreamed Kingsmen at her side, not when she had her very real prize hidden in the loft.

 

Sticks served as fine swords in her youth, but at twenty, Roxy had since come by the real thing. She set down her lantern and pulled a bundle from the stacks of hay, brushing the strands that clung to the oilcloth away.

 

Her father's sword hung in his study, a reminder of his time in the military during the last great war. His stories about the campaigns, and the somewhat emptied halls of those families whose relatives had marched away to never return, told Roxy enough about the loses and toll of war. She had no interest in seeing it come again, though some of her male cousins lamented their inability to find glory on a battlefield. She had been born after the end of the conflict, only knowing peace time, and was eager for it to stay that way.

 

It did not mean she had no interest weaponry, their form, or the structure and study of fighting. After all, if you didn't understand something, how could you subvert it, change it, prevent it from ever happening again?

 

She pulled the saber from its ill-fitted sheath and laid it out on the oilcloth in front of her. Care and respect for weapons was mentioned in all the books she read on swordplay. The somewhat dubiously gained weapon before her was not in much better shape then its sheath, but it held together in her hands. She had yet to try striking it against anything, in part for lacking the understanding of the proper form, and in part to avoid alerting the whole household of what it was she had obtained. Trees appearing scored up on the property would not be the best way to maintain discretion.

 

She gripped the hilt in her hand, body buzzing with as much excitement as it had when she first snuck out of the house to check that her prize was still in place. Those first few eager nights where all she had dared to do was stare at the weapon were long behind her.

 

Her hair had been plaited in preparation for sleep, and served her now in keeping her face clear of any distracting strands as she took her stance. She stayed up on the loft, arm outstretched and eyes fixed on the point of her sword. The book she took her form lessons from was in her father's study, carefully tucked back on the shelf whenever she wasn't using it. If he noticed its constant shifting and dust free cover, he never mentioned it.

 

Roxy shifted her feet, mind recalling the sometimes less than helpful sketches that accompanied the written description of the forms. When her body was set in a shape she found satisfactory, she concentrated on her breathing. Her lungs used to rattle as bad as her arm when she first started holding the sword in an extended pose. A grasp on proper breathing was about the only thing she felt she had learned efficiently from the book.

 

She was on her third round of measured breaths when the door to the stables opened.

 

The sword point dropped as she lowered her arm, almost dragging against the floor of the loft. The lantern at her side meant it would be impossible for her not to be noticed instantly, same as the sword in her hand. Which, if she could manage to reign in her shock, could help her in a bluff.

 

If someone uncouth was sneaking into the stables to steal or hide something, and at this hour what else would they be doing, the sight of a sword might be enough to scare them off. A pistol or a musket might have served her better, as she had practice firing those, but Roxy found most people still looked at gun with fascination rather than fear. Not enough people had seen them in use, even if it was just against a deer or fox.

 

So she turned, and lifted the sword once again. The point wobbled somewhat in her vision, though her arm had not yet grown tired.

 

The shape stayed in the doorway, and it was too shadowy for her to be able to make out a face clearly. Any words she hoped to say such as _Hold!_ or _State your business!_ stuck in her dry throat and would not come forth. She stared down the wavering sword point from the loft, trying to remind herself that she quite literally had the high ground. It didn't matter if she didn't know how to properly fight, she could always kick them in the head when they tried to climb up after her.

 

“Is this Morton Hall?”

 

The clear voice and polite words of the man were just as startling as his appearance, and Roxy slowly lowered her sword.

 

“The Hall is down the path, these are the stables.”

 

Though she still could not make out his face, Roxy got the distinct impression that she had managed to amuse him. “Then I have come to the right address.” He turned as if to exit, then hesitated. “May I bring my horse in? We're both a bit tired from the ride.”

 

“Oh, um of course.”

 

When he left to attend to his horse, Roxy quickly bundled up her sword. Possibly a fool move if the man did prove to be a threat, but she was more interested in making sure the weapon wasn't discovered by her family then trying to use it in defense. She would probably just end up hurting herself anyway.

 

Re-bundled in its oilcloth, she had just shoved the sword back into its space between the hay bales when the man reentered with his horse. She grabbed her lantern and hurried down the ladder, skipping the last rung and jumping to the floor.

  
“There's an open stall this way.”

 

Now that she had brought the light closer to him, she could make out the fine make of his clothes, though they were somewhat travel stained. His face wasn't young, but it had not reached the wizened state some of her older tutors had. He was some kind of middle aged, though she wasn't able to determine if the shadows were helping or hindering the years she was trying to attribute to him.

 

He removed the horse tack himself, preempting her question of whether or not she should go and rouse a stable hand. The moment she spotted someone she should have run to the main house to wake the steward, but considering she wasn't supposed to up, let alone out in the stables wearing trousers and practicing with a sword, Roxy felt keeping the number of wakeful people small would only benefit her.

 

“Are you expected, sir?”

 

“No, I rode ahead of a larger party. Their coming deserves some fair warning, and I thought I would be much easier to take in on short notice.” His light tone tried to cover it, but he was clearly irritated.

 

“I hope you did not have to ride too far.”

 

“No, but quickly and in the dark is never the best way to travel.”

 

Her unabashed staring prompted him to take her in the same way, and she refused to be embarrassed. The trousers she had were worn and well mended by some lad's careful mother's hand. Her shirt was stolen from a washing line, and the sleeves did not quite reach her wrists, while the chest was wide and baggy around her sides. Next to his fine shirt, double-breasted waistcoat, heavy traveling cloak and wool riding trousers, she looked like something one would find spat in a gutter.

 

Maybe she could get him to swear to secrecy about this encounter, though the way things were going, she would probably have to wake the steward and bribe him to do it for her.

 

“Then you'll need something hot and a bed for the night.” As if she could just offer it to him without waking half the staff.

 

“And a quick word with the master of the house, or the steward if that is not possible.”

 

Waking up her father was the last thing Roxy wanted to do, as it would mean also waking up her mother. “Very well.”

 

She led the way to the door, and nearly extinguished the lantern out of habit. She might have been able to get to the house without trouble, but she did not need to leave her guest stumbling in the dark. The lantern swung awkwardly in her hand as she quickly moved it away from her face and its near extinguishing experience. The man made a sound not dissimilar to a laugh and she felt her face flush. This was not how she intended to stay warm this night.

 

He was quiet and she was too embarrassed to speak, so their walk to the main house was done in silence. She led him around to the kitchen and servant quarters, never looking over her shoulder and trusting the soft sound of his footfalls as enough indication he was still behind her.

 

She hesitated just outside the door, years of ingrained protocol not quite enough to tell her to brave this danger. Roxy offered the lantern to him, and his expression grew curious.

 

“The steward's quarters are attached to the kitchen, he will hear you when you knock.”

 

He took the light. “Thank you for being my guide.”

 

“Don't think to mention it.” She maintained the false cheerfulness of etiquette and civility for barely enough time to get the words out. Her smile quickly dropped. “Please.”

 

“As I have appeared to have interrupted something of grave importance, I shall consider it well within your rights to ask that of me.”

 

Roxy studied his face, pleased to find sincerity in his eyes. “Thank you.”

 

“You are most welcome.”

 

She was about to thank him again when her eyes fell on the brooch of his traveling cloak. She hadn't been able to see it fully until he held the lantern, bringing the details of his fine clothing into better relief. Roxy tried not to let her her surprise dictate the tenor of her voice. “You're a Kingsman.”

 

He looked down to where her eyes had landed, fingers coming up to brush the burnished piece of metal. “Yes, though if we are to go by titles, I prefer Galahad.”

 

_The Galahad?_ Roxy's heart hammered in her chest, and she hoped at least some of her shock had not made it to her face.

 

The current Kingsman Percival was her cousin, named Andrew before he took the title from what she could recall. So, Roxy wasn't completely amazed at being in the presence of a Kingsman, it was just that was she completely amazed at being in the presence of _Galahad_.

 

His family was the stuff of gossip no matter the season, and she had honestly never expected to see him in person. He was a bit like a fairy, or a unicorn, existing only in tales. Tragic ones, too. The Galahad line could only be described as dying out. It had been small even before he lost his three brothers in the war and was left with the Kingsman title. It would take months, if not years, of research through archives to track old marriages and descendants in order to find a living relation of the man standing before her.

 

Roxy had once heard a visiting relative claim it was due to the Galahad line's insistence on marrying foreigners and low born locals in the past. No family wanted to tie up their prospects with someone who had no known wealth or standing with their current king. That tirade had ended with the clear note that the family had set themselves up for failure. She could recall no one in the room disagreeing with the claim.

 

The latest tragedy Roxy was privy to concerning the man's life was the death of his wife last summer. They had been married thirty years and had no children. Some of the darker rumors claimed her drowning was no accident, and that her husband had finally had enough and done her in himself. Roxy took it as nonsense the moment she heard it, thirty years was an awfully long time to put up with someone, and if he really was frustrated by a lack of an heir, why had he made no effort to go out into society and get remarried?

 

“Now that you know me, may ask whom it is I am addressing?”

 

“Roxanne Morton.”

 

She had been caught off guard, but clearly he was too. Finding the daughter of the head of the estate you had come to visit mucking about in the stables with a sword probably had that effect on people.

 

“Well Miss Morton, it seems we both have our reasons for being about after dark, though I wager yours is far more interesting.”

 

The Kingsmen had been the elite generals of the first Arthur, and though much of their courtly positions were now strictly ceremonial, their families still held a lot of power. Well, most of them. Even diminished as his line was, he had to have a damned interesting reason to be out in the middle of the night, riding to her family's estate.

 

“I would have to bet against you on that, sir.”

 

He laughed again, and since she had done nothing embarrassing to prompt it, she found she liked the sound.

 

She pulled her focus off his broach, though she was no longer quite so sure of looking him in the eye. “I hope the incident in the stables can still remain un-discussed.”

 

“A gentleman does not go back on his word.”

 

His sincerity was calming, and she tried not to sigh in relief. “Then I thank you once more, and goodnight.”

 

“Goodnight.”

 

Roxy just about marched past him then, determined not to look back as she headed for her window. She did not hear him knock until she was around the corner of the house, and the panic in her thoughts at having to face her parents was soothed. Her curiosity was in no way abated, though.

 

Why was a Kingsman out at this hour at her home? What party had he ridden ahead of? Was it possible she was going to meet some even more marvelously story-like person? Roxy could think of no one that suited such a description from the top of her head, but she was looking forward to being proven wrong.

 

At her window, Roxy checked that it was still open, not fallen shut or closed. If someone had closed it, that would mean there would be people out looking for her. Never an enjoyable experience. As there was no light and it was still open, she could only surmise that her little sojourn had not been noticed. Of course, she had hardly been gone long, not like most nights she went out to the stables.

 

Lining up her path, Roxy took several long strides back from her window, before sprinting at it full force. Jumping before she could bodily slam into the solid foundation, she managed to latch on to the sill with her fingers, most of her body still careening into the house. This was generally where her little excursions were discovered, due the noise. She had occasionally left a small rope to climb back up, but doing so always seemed to invite a greater risk of discovery. Besides, she didn't build up quite so much upper arm strength that way.

 

As it stood, she was still only capable of heaving herself up on to her forearms, feet scratching against the side of the house, before tipping herself farther into her room, and gracelessly falling in. One day she imagined the whole thing would be effortless, but until then, she would live with scraped hands and a somewhat bruised chest and stomach.

 

When she regained her feet and shut her window, she could hear some stirrings on the other side of her door. Roxy dropped on to her bed, ready to pull up the covers over her clothes if someone poked their head in, when the footsteps faded down the hall.

 

No one was checking on her. In fact, they were far more likely getting woken up to deal with the strange guest at the kitchen door.

 

Relaxing, Roxy shucked off her practice clothes and dropped her nightgown back over her head. She did not have the added benefit of hours of practice to help lull her to sleep. In fact, she was more alert right then than she had been before she snuck out of the window earlier that night. Galahad was at her home. Trying to sleep now was like trying to sleep before the winter solstice as a child, knowing there would be gifts waiting for her in the morning.

 

She squeezed her eyes shut, trying not to get distracted by the soft footfalls and creaks of the floor in the halls. If she tried hard enough, she was certain she could will herself to sleep.

 


End file.
